by Vivi Holt
The minister who’d married them was so old and frail and his hearing so bad, each time she shook her head and shouted “no” during their vows, he simply nodded with a toothless grin and continued on with the ceremony. When she tried to run, Quincey held her close and pinched her arm. In the end she stood her ground, confident that the law would never uphold such a marriage – until, that is, her new husband forged her signature on the marriage certificate. Now she wasn’t so sure.
She glared at him as her stepfather came up alongside her. “Congratulations, Genny – yer a married woman now! Isn’t that what ya always wanted?” He chuckled, and she caught him winking behind her back at his childhood friend – the man who’d just been pronounced her husband.
“Well, at least it’ll get ya out from under my feet,” he continued. “I can’t be payin’ for yer upkeep forever. Your Ma done died on me, leavin’ me with a rug-rat I never wanted. Now it’s time for ya to find yer own place in life. Can’t say as I’ll miss ya much, ‘part from the cookin’ ‘n sech of course, but I’ll find a missus to do that soon enough with ya out of the house. ‘Course, yer not goin’ far – just across the way. I’m sure ya could find it in yer heart to help me out a time or two, after all I’ve done fer ya.”
They’d stepped out into the bright Texas morning, and Genevieve squinted against the sunlight that streamed down through a faint fuzz of thin clouds above. She cast her gaze around – they were on the outskirts of Fort Worth, Texas, and she could see the plains stretched out before them. The town pushed toward the openness, threatening to civilize its bluffs, rises and hollows. Chaparral tufts littered the landscape, sheltering hare and various rodents and giving the plains an unkempt look.
Genevieve smoothed the skirts of her burgundy-plaid dress. It was the nicest dress she owned, but even so it was well worn and pulled tightly across her chest and hips where she’d grown in recent years. A long line of small buttons ran up the front of the bodice. The sleeves no longer reached her wrists even when she tugged at them, and the stays pinched her tiny waist. She sighed. “If Ma knew what you had planned for me, Fred, she’d roll over in her grave.” She caught a sob and pushed it back down with a grimace.
He laughed again, this time with a slap on his thigh. When the sound faded, he leveled his face close to hers. She could smell stale tobacco and tequila as his bloodshot eyes trained on hers and held her gaze. “Ya watch yer manners there, Missy. Ya got a husband now, and he may not put up with yer sass the way I done.”
She felt a squeeze on her arm and turned to face her new husband with a gasp. “What was that for?”
“Ya speak to my friend here with some respect. He’s yer elder and I won’t have none of yer lip, ya hear? Yer my wife now and you’ll heed what I say, got it?” Quincey took off his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Dagnabit, it’s hot today. What say we grab us a drink to celebrate this fine occasion?” he asked Fred, who nodded that he heartily concurred with the plan.
Genevieve rubbed her arm where his thin fingers had pinched, and furrowed her brow. She’d never imagined that her life could have taken a turn for the worse after everything that had already happened to her. When her father died in a mining accident, Ma married the next man who asked her, out of fear that they’d end up in the poorhouse or dead from hunger or cold in the street. Unfortunately, that man had been Fred Bilton, and a more cold-hearted man would have been hard to find. Or so she thought, until she met his friend and their neighbor, Quincey Ewing.
The two men eyed Genevieve with a frown. “What?” she asked, her hands on her hips.
“Just wonderin’ what on Earth to do with ya while yer Uncle Fred and me head on down to the saloon for a bit.” Quincey placed his hat back on his head and grabbed her wrist, dragging her along behind him.
“Stop it, you’re hurting me,” she cried, stumbling after him.
“Keep up, then, and it’ll hurt less.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Ya can sit outside the saloon where I can keep my eye on ya. I got a feelin’ yer in a feisty mood.” He stopped and pulled her close to his chest, both hands wrapped tightly around her tiny wrists. “And just so ya know – I don’t take kindly to feisty. Ya give me trouble, I give ya trouble, you got me?” He narrowed his eyes at the sight of her pale face, and the wiry gray hairs that curled up from the tops of his eyebrows lifted and fell as he regarded her. “What’s wrong with ya, girl? Did ya hear what I said?”
Genevieve nodded, and he released one of her wrists, pulling her behind him down the busy street once again. Tears threatened, but she held them in. She didn’t want him to see her cry, to know that he’d been able to hurt her. She couldn’t give him the satisfaction. Fred plodded along behind the two of them, huffing and puffing in his attempt to keep up with Quincey’s clipped pace.
They drew to a halt in front of a rusted sign that swung from a thin paling nailed in front of a two-way door. The sign read Tandy’s, and Fred licked his lips. “Well, you finally got yer way there, Quincey – I gave you my girl to marry. I figure this means the drinks are on you today, right?”
Quincey nodded and scowled. With one last glance at Genevieve, he pointed to a nearby bench and watched as she made her way over to sit. “Ya‘n’I will be doin’ our own celebratin’ later tonight,” he said with a glint in his dark eyes.
Genevieve shivered and felt the bile rise in her throat at the thought of what lay in store for her later that evening. Quincey snickered and pushed open the saloon doors, and the two men hurried inside, anxious to begin drinking.
As soon as they disappeared, Genevieve’s heart raced until it felt as though it would burst from her chest. She pulled and tugged at her corset, but it was no use. Standing quickly to her feet, she drew in deep gasps of air as circles and pricks of light danced and swayed before her eyes.
“Are you all right there, Miss?” asked a cowboy as he gently cupped her arm. His eyes were kindly above a bushy beard.
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” she replied, steadying herself in his grasp.
“Why don’t you sit right here? There you go.” He helped her back onto the bench, and she closed her eyes, concentrating on slowing her breathing. The next time she opened them, it was to see the cowboy dip his brown Stetson at her with a smile and meander off down the street.
Before she knew what she was doing, she was back on her feet and following him. She did it quietly so he wouldn’t notice, and she wasn’t even sure why she felt the need to follow him, but it was as though she were following an instinct she couldn’t fight. I can’t stay there. I can’t go through with it. Quincey is horrible and mean and old and I despise him. I can’t be married to him. Just thinking about going home with him to that ramshackle old place he calls a house makes my stomach churn.
The cowboy sauntered down the street. He stepped from the covered sidewalk onto the dusty road with a hop and ducked between wagons and buggies to cross it. The road they were following was the main thoroughfare for the dusty Texas town, edged on both sides by tall false storefronts. Covered boardwalks joined them to keep boots and slippers up out of the dust and manure that coated the potholed road with a layer of grime.
I can’t do it. I can’t do it. Genevieve’s mind was blank apart from a single thought that repeated itself over and over in time with the slap of her feet on the road. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.
She knew, if she dared think about it, that Quincey would come after her. As soon as he saw she’d left her place outside Tandy’s, he’d come looking and he wouldn’t stop until he found where she was. Then she’d pay. She’d seen the way he’d collected a toll from his workers, the animals on his farm and the sporting women who crept from his bed in the early hours of the morning. She’d seen it all from her home on the opposite side of the lane from his shanty. She knew how he treated anyone who had the misfortune to be included in his life, and she knew what she’d have to bear when he caught up with her.
The knowledge made
her insides quake with fear, but it didn’t cause her to stop. She kept going, creeping along behind the cowboy, shivering inside, and all the while the thought flew around and around in her head. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.
They soon passed by the dusty, little church where Genevieve had recently become Mrs. Ewing. She saw Quincey’s wagon parked out front where they’d left it earlier, and peered over the lip of the wagon bed. A dingy carpet bag sat in the back of the wagon. She reached inside and deftly pulled it from the wagon. It fell in the dirt at her feet with a thump, raising a cloud of dust to swirl about her skirts. With a frown, she bent and opened the latch, lifting the lid gingerly to look inside.
She gasped. It was full of her clothes and personal items!
Fred must have packed it when she wasn’t looking earlier that morning. He’d asked her to feed the shoats after breakfast, and when she’d carried their food scraps out to the yard he must have packed her things and slipped them into Quincey’s wagon. She snapped the carpet bag closed again, and hefted it over her shoulder. The cowboy had almost disappeared from view, she’d have to hurry. She picked up her skirts and scampered down the street after him, the bag clenched firmly under her arm.
They came to the Fort Worth Stockyards. A large sign to announce that fact hung directly above her head with big block letters all in red. Behind the sign, paling fences marked off small squares of dirt and enclosed hundreds of cattle. They bawled and clashed their long horns against the railings, jousting with each other in the small enclosures. Browns, whites, tans and creams – their coats were dull with dust, and they shivered against the onslaught of flies that hovered thick above them, darting in to land on a hide before being swatted away by a heavy tail or chased off by a moist nose.
The cowboy paused by the stockyards, raising one foot to rest on a low railing as he surveyed the cattle. He pulled a toothpick from his mouth and flicked a piece of food into the grass. Genevieve stood in silence, waiting. She didn’t have a plan; she was just following the man with kind eyes.
He set off again, past the yards, the rowels of his spurs spinning and tinging with each step he took. Beyond the yards he came to a clearing. Past the clearing Genevieve could see the dry plains spread as far as the eye could see to the distant horizon under the enormous Texan sky that pulled itself taut and hazy above the dusty landscape.
On the edge of those plains, in the clearing, an enormous herd of longhorns milled around. Around them on horseback sat a few covered wagons and a group of cowboys watching the cattle closely. The cowboy climbed onto the back of a bay horse that stood saddled and tied to the back of one of the wagons. He tipped his hat at another man who walked between the wagons toward Genevieve, then drew the reins and trotted off.
Genevieve squinted as the dust borne on a warm wind came in gusts off the plain and hit her full in the face. What should she do now? The cowboy had disappeared around the outside of the herd and she could follow no further. The man walking toward her was closer now and she could see his brow furrowed in concentration. He had a handsome, darkly tanned face with chiseled features. Several chestnut curls escaped the tight fit of his black Stetson, and when he glanced her way she caught her breath. His eyes were pale blue and sparkled under the brim of his low-drawn hat.
Without thinking, Genevieve ducked behind the closest covered wagon. Her heart raced and she held her breath. The canvas that covered the wagon was joined to the timber frame directly in front of her eyes, and she noticed as she hid there that it had popped open on one side. She pulled it away from the wagon frame and poked her head up through the gap. The schooner was chock-full of food stuffs and kitchenware: cured meats, wheels of cheese, flour, eggs, pickled and canned fruits and vegetables, as well as containers of things she couldn’t make out. All were stacked up in the midst of frying pans, pots, utensils and spices.
Her eyes widened in surprise and delight. She had never in her life seen so many good things to eat, and in fact it had been a number of years since she’d had a hearty meal. Since Ma died, Fred had always insisted she cook for him, never leaving her enough to eat herself. She felt her mouth moisten at the sight of all that delectable food and her stomach growled, twisting tightly as she considered how it might taste. She climbed up on a step that jutted out at the base of the wagon bed, then pushed herself over the edge and inside, pulling the carpet bag behind her.
She landed with a grunt on a wheel of cheese. She’d never seen so much cheese! If only she had a knife. There must be one around here somewhere. No, what was she thinking? That would be stealing, and there was no way she could get away with slicing into a full wheel of cheese without anyone finding out about it.
If she was going to steal – which she wasn’t – it would make a lot more sense to take one of those delicious-looking red apples in the barrel beside the cheese. No one would ever notice that an apple was missing from a barrel that size. But of course that was still stealing, and hungry as she was, she knew Ma would never approve of such behavior, God rest her soul.
Her stomach growled again and she licked her lips. It was just a tiny little apple. Surely there wasn’t a person on this Earth who would object to her taking one teeny apple.
She reached out and plucked one from the top of the barrel. It felt cool to the touch, and as she pushed it into her mouth and bit down hard into its crisp flesh, the juice ran down her chin and dripped onto her skirts. She leaned back against the hard, rounded side of the barrel and put her feet up on top of the cheese as she munched.
Just then, the wagon jolted and moved forward. She stopped chewing and sat upright, listening intently. She could hear the bellowing of the cattle and the whistles and calls of the cowboys – they were moving out. She wondered where they were headed. Never mind – wherever it was she hoped it was as far from Fort Worth and Quincey Ewing as she could get. She lay back down and took another bite.
Keep reading…
Also by Vivi Holt
Orphan Brides Go West
Mail Order Bride: Christy
Mail Order Bride: Ramona
Mail Order Bride: Katie
Mail Order Bride: Holly (coming soon!)
Cutter’s Creek
The Strong One
The Betrothed
Cherished
Season of Love
Paradise Valley
Of Peaks and Prairies
Winds of Paradise
For an updated list of my books, please visit:
www.viviholt.com
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About the Author
Vivi Holt was born in Australia. She grew up in the country, where she spent her youth riding horses at Pony Club, and adventuring through the fields and rivers around the farm. Her father was a builder, turned saddler, and her mother a nurse, who stayed home to raise their four children.
After graduating from a degree in International Relations, Vivi moved to Atlanta, Georgia to work for a year. It was there that she met her husband, and they were married three years later. Vivi also studied for a Bachelor of Information Technology, and has worked in the field ever since. She spent seven years living in Atlanta and travelled to various parts of the United States during that time, falling in love with the beauty of that immense country and the American people.
She now lives in Brisbane, Australia with her husband and three small children. Married to a Baptist pastor, she is very active in her local church, and continues to work part-time as a Knowledge and Information Manager. Whatever spare time she has left after all of that goes into writing – something she has only recently discovered, but now loves to do.
Historical Note
And Author’s Remarks
I was so excited to write this book, and as such, the words just seemed to flow right onto the page. I was anxious to discover Maria’s story as much as anyone, and couldn’t wait to see w
hat happened!
Back when I wrote The Betrothed, I decided to have one of the characters kidnapped in a Lakota ambush - that turned out to be Maria. Then, when we revisited Cutter’s Creek in Cherished, Sheriff Clifford Brentwood became consumed by his need to find Maria. He finally caught sight of her in a Lakota village, but was chased off by a group of warriors on horseback before he could do anything about it.
In Captivated, we go back in time to follow Maria on her journey from the moment of her abduction, finally answering the question we’ve all been wondering: What happened to Maria Holloway?
Maria’s story was inspired by two true stories. The first was that of Cynthia Ann Parker. She was kidnapped during a raid by Commanche, Kiowa, and Caddo Indians in Texas at only nine years old. In her case, her entire family was brutally killed, much as Fred Holloway was. Adopted into the Commanche tribe, she lived a happy life for the next twenty-five years, until Texas Rangers recaptured her and forced her to return to live again among Anglo-Americans.
Like many Plains Indian tribes, the Commanche had, for many years, kidnapped their enemy’s women and children. Sometimes those kidnapped would be treated as slaves, or traded for valuable goods. And many times captives eventually became full-fledged members of the tribe, particularly if they were kidnapped as young children. That’s what happened to Parker.
Anglo-Texans first learned that the young girl might still be alive four years later. A trader named Williams saw her with a band of Commanche, and tried to purchase her release, but failed. After four years, Parker apparently had become accustomed to Commanche ways and did not want to leave - refusing to even speak to him. She was spotted again in 1845 by two other white men. She was, by then, 17 years old, and a Commanche warrior told them he was her husband. Apparently she hid from them, and didn’t wish to leave with them.